


Wait Another Day

by brokenEisenglas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple domestic scene, a short personal study of what could be their relationship. John has a nightmare which brings him to Sherlock's door. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> I have begun to realize that I have an affinity for specific methods of titles... This is just a short one-shot I wrote while bored in class. Hopefully, just hopefully, it is semi-decent.

His panting was such a turn on. The way he was so responsive, it made John’s dick ache. The creamy skin of his thighs, rippling abdominal muscles, oh, and the sweat beading on his forehead, neck, and chest. The absolute ethereal nature of his entire being made John twitch with encapsulated desire.

            Husking a leg up over his shoulder, he sees those verdigris eyes, so beautiful, ever changing, clouded with want. He leans up and sucks parted lips, nibbling top then bottom, twisting tongues, sharing taste. John rolls his hips forward, cock to cock, nearly coming from the whine his lover makes.

            “oooooh… John.” He had never heard his name as supplication. “Please,” the plea is barely more than a whisper.

            He knows what the detective wants, needs. He allows deft fingers to roam from hi to arse and closer, until, “Ah! John!”

            Ebony curls stick to skin, plastered down from the shear intensity of the men’s arousal. The lithe body arches, aching cock finding friction, thighs clenching around rib and shoulder. John chuckles, which sounds more like a throaty gasp. Using his right hand, he reaches for the nightstand, pulling the lube cap off and liberally coating his left hand fingers. The leg over his good shoulder tightens, insistent for more.

            “Oh, god…” The baritone cracks, the cry pitiful, needy. Sherlock is hot, hard, and increasingly impatient. One hand reaches down, grabs his cock, and squeezes the base. John is captivated by the self-restraint.

            “Gorgeous,” he growls, fingers finding their mark and slowly inserting, stretching, feeling for that one place.

            Tears build at the corners of the younger man’s eyes, spilling when the breaching has found that spot, so deliciously painful and-

            “Fuck me. John, dear god, just,” he pants a second; grunting, tries to get more, anything, something more! “Ah! I’m, please, not… not yet.”

            This. John could like this, everyday, waking up to the face bellow him, the the brilliant mind, that beacon of light in his world.

            He removes his fingers, grabs his own prick, adjusts, and eases in. they were already so close. Not realizing his lack of condom, John slowly thrusts, experimental at first, teasing following. The heat is exquisite; the clasp of muscle along his hard member enrapturing, a feeling not had with the women.

            _No more_ , John thinks. _No more with them. This, I only need this…_

_We need this._

            Possessively, he speeds up, holding Sherlock as still as he can, as he dares. The pounding he gives his lover will surely make him sore for days. His orgasm approaches quickly, a trains towards a tunnel, he loses sight and really wears in. Sherlock screams, all inhibitions removed. His voice stutters between gasps, unable to take breath.

            John gives it to him. Their mouths meet; John breathes for him. Cum, white sticky cum, covers their stomachs as Sherlock loses control. Shortly after, John follows, seeing the light, filling Sherlock, claiming him.

            “Mine,” John growls. “Always mine.”

            Sherlock just nods, sweat dripping down the side of his face, his pale face, paling further. Lips blue. Eyes dark underneath. Skin suddenly cold to the touch.

            “Sherlock?” Confusion doesn’t begin to explain how he feels. Worry. “Sherlock.” Hands grab him, pull him away. He fights desperately. “Sherlock!”

            Johns shoots up out of his bed; sweating, bed soaked, he throws his tangled blankets aside and sprints down the stairs to his room. He flings the door to 221B’s kitchen open and dashes down the hall to Sherlock’s room. The door is cracked open, but John throws it open, putting a hole in the wall where the inside handle would be. His short breaths prevent him from saying anything, but he doesn’t have to.

            Sherlock crawls out of bed, covered in perspiration, eyes red and puffy, his lip busted and bleeding. He throws his naked body into John’s arms; tears afresh stream down his cheeks. Body wracking sobs of grief break the doctor’s heart. This man, about whom he just had another dream of passion and terror, is the man no one sees. Until now. Now, he sees. Doctor’s hands caress cheek, neck, hair, arm, back… He pauses over a ridge, feels some more, and continues stroking, attempting to ignore the evidence of past pains, a conversation for later.

            “Oh, Sherlock,” John pulls the younger man closer, holding him tighter. He places a kiss atop unruly, sticky curls. “Shower. Then, sleep. Come on.”

            They would have to have the conversation soon, no doubt. Head nodding, the detective loosens his grip, and John lets go. Bare feet trudge across aging carpet, and John turns to peak at old wounds. He sighs.

            _Definitely have to have that talk._

            Pulling off soiled sheets, John resolves himself to sleeping downstairs this evening. He listens to the shower, wishes to be able to join. Lord knows he needs one, too. He then notices the uncomfortable pull of his pants around his crotch. Definitely needs to shower. His thoughts have him isolated so that he doesn’t notice the open and close of the bathroom door behind him. Tucking clean sheets, he turns to the doorway to see Sherlock, towel around his waist, looking forlorn.

            Lonely.

            The surgical scars on his abdomen cause guilt to rise in John’s stomach. _I caused that,_ he thinks to himself, portrays to the world. He watches a shiver run through Sherlock’s body. The other man coughs deeply, phlegm not quite coming loose.

            _My fault._

            “Shut up.”

            Navy blue eyes look fondly up on their friend, “I didn’t say anything.”

            Sherlock ‘humphs,’ gives John one of those meaningful looks, and walks back to the loo.

            Replacing the pillows on the bed, John strips of his own clothes, then goes to the bathroom. He hears the water drops silence, followed by slapping the tub floor, laughs to himself, and enters from the back of the curtain, away from the shower-head. Sherlock’s hair is sopping, the lather proves only just having begun.

            Bravely, John pushes the other’s hands away and massages the wash in.

            “You should really look into getting a haircut.” John’s fingers pull curls as straight as he can, about 25 centimeters, and watches the ringlets pull back into swirls.

            “Hmm…” Sherlock lets his head fall back, resting on John’s shoulder- _when did we get closer together?_ \- sighs, which begins a tough bout of coughing. John places his head on the middle of Sherlock’s back and listens. What he hears frightens him.

            “Are you taking your medication?”

            Sherlock merely nods, hand covering his mouth, trying to hold back.

            “No. Cough. Just,” John’s left hand clenches and unclenches at its place beside the other man’s ribs, “cough. Spit out whatever comes up.”

            The detective nods again, trying to relax in his… friend’s?... arms.

_Why did they have to throw him into the Thames?_ The memory sits fresh on John’s mind. The terror still clings: paling skin, sopping wet, blue lips, dark eyes, no breath.

            The space between their bodies disappears; tears roll down his face as he hold him from behind. Shampoo streaks down his arms and back.

            “I’m fine, John.” Sherlock pulls the soldier’s arms loos and turns to face the shorter man. The bareness of their bodies does not register to their touch. “I’m here.”

            The detective takes a leap, one not taken between the pair before, and kisses John tenderly on the lips. He rests his forehead to the doctor’s, soaking up the moment. Using soft fingers, Sherlock traces the small bullet scar on John’s left shoulder. He examines the surgical scars from the back with lighter touches, cataloging the possible procedures that may have had to be done.

            _Not a clean through-and-through. The bullet shattered._

            Another light kiss on the cheek encourages John to relax; Sherlock taking his time washing hair and flesh, careful around the more private regions. The water begins cooling just as he finishes his ministrations.

            Both men rinse, and dry before returning to Sherlock’s bedroom. The sheets are pulled down, and they climb in, each on a respective side: John right, Sherlock left. The detective’s coughing resumes. The mucus not wanting to release has John worried. He shifts under the covers and finds Sherlock directly behind him. He turns over to look in the detective’s eyes. What he sees takes his breath away.

            “You don’t mind?” the younger man asks, uncertainty lingering behind the inquiring facade.

            “Anytime,” which surfaces a memory long lost but not forgotten.

            _Shrugs, “I don’t mind.”_

_Smile, “Anytime.”_

            Damp black curls tuck into his chest, a knee up over his own, and arms crossed and pulled in. Eyes, like steel in this darkened room, observe. They focus on blonde but greying hair, skyline eyes, tanned but faded skin, muscular chest, arms and abs. They see laughs, tears, anger, and fears. Fondness.

            And, should he dare say, love?

            “What were you dreaming of, Sherlock?”

            Memories of knives, blood, chains, electric, running, falling, suffocating… Another coughing spell provides him another moment of thought. John alone, scared, angry; fists flying; tears in his eyes; lost child; unfaithful wife and assassin. Moriarty. The bombs. The pool. John, on Bart’s roof.

            “I can’t lose you.”

            The silence between them is almost uneasy. The younger man afraid of the next response. The light from the street only provides enough to see the thoughtfulness, other senses relied upon for further observation, but emotions still hidden. Another outbreak of sweat threatens, and his muscles start aching.

            John clears his throat, attempts to speak, and stops. Every line of his body relaxes as he pecks a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

            “I’m… yes. Yeah,” he giggles. “Same.”

            Sleep encroaches upon them quickly after that. The two men entangles themselves further, legs fitted together, breaths synchronized. They dream more peacefully, aware of the other’s presence. More pressing matters can wait until another day. Nightmares can hold one more night. And, finally, the men can breathe knowing that the other is nearby, safe, and in their arms.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't tell, I am from the US. I attempted simple changes in language, but, alas, I am still American. Let me know your thoughts, ideas, and corrections. I'm working on the multi-chapter scars story and would like lingual correction as I work.   
> Thank you, you wonderful, amazing, lovely beings, you! :D


End file.
